Hannah Jones: Hallmark of a happy marriage lasts for ever

An early morning e-mail pings in from Mam Jones on Wednesday telling me – not reminding me, there is a massive difference as she knows I’m rubbish at sending cards – that it’s her 42nd wedding anniversary.

An early morning e-mail pings in from Mam Jones on Wednesday telling me – not reminding me, there is a massive difference as she knows I’m rubbish at sending cards – that it’s her 42nd wedding anniversary.

So, like all good daughters who pay no attention to such facts unless they’re reminded, I started to feel guilty about not marking it and scramble to show a glimmer of interest.

Although my mother is wonderful at pretending that such milestones mean nothing to her and don’t really matter, she was still able to slip into the bleeps and blurps of her cyber-prodding an aside on the “huge” bouquet of flowers which “came with a free vase too” from one of her pals, various cards to a “wonderful couple” and other gestures outlined in words of two or more syllables.

But the two most important people in her life had, of course, forgotten to remember.

She told me that when she reminded my father of the significance of the date, he simply said: “Have a nice day... I’m off to Hereford with Dai Pugh to look for chickens.”

(Of the live variety, I hasten to add. It wouldn’t be beyond the realms of possibility that he’d get one, bring it home and call it Soph in a gesture of misplaced altruism, only for her to say “pluck it”. And mean it.)

My parents are the happiest couple I’ve ever known.

Theirs isn’t a hearts and flowers relationship, one built on fancy holidays, new cars, grand gestures or extravagant sentiment.

It’s way better than that.

I remember once, years and years ago, my father getting – what’s the word for it now? Oh yes, got it, bladdered.

We were in the pub where my mother and I were both brought up, a late-night lock-in with friends living on our street in Ebbw Vale.

And, as these things tend to do after rousing singalongs of old-style Engelbert Humperdinck hits, talk turned mushy.

Chopsing about near escapes, wedding days and divorces over too many pints of Welsh bitter, someone asked my father about his first love.

And I can see it now, as if it were yesterday – Dad Jones, heavily tattooed arms crossed over his belly, head bobbing up and down to the music as my mother held court.

“So-So-So-Sophie,” he stuttered forth, a little word of huge significance to him.

“Always been So-So-So, see. Saw So and that was it. Beautiful, mun. Still is, see. So...”

And as all of us collectively “ahhhhd” and “awwwwd”, he dropped off to sleep and started snoring, but not before my mother, even as her heart leaped with contentment, topped off his uncharacteristic show of emotion with a “stupid b*****” and a smile.

So here we are then. A few days into their 43rd year together and my mother never did get a card from my father.

But she hasn’t complained.

When friends asked her why she didn’t get upset, she answered truthfully: “He scrubbed the kitchen floor for me instead. Lasts longer than Hallmark. Besides, how many women do you know with a chicken named after them?”

WalesOnline is part of Media Wales, publisher of the Western Mail, South Wales Echo, Wales on Sunday and the seven Celtic weekly titles, offering you unique access to our audience across Wales online and in print.